Sinchom in the Night

Sinchom awoke that night with his heart in his mouth. “Golly gee”, thought the young Ugandan, “Must’ve been a nightmare.” Having returned his heart to its rightful place, and changed the bedsheets and his pants upon discovering that they were soaked with his urine, he decided to lay on his right side, something he had not done since he was a child, and shut his eyes, in the hope that he would fall asleep. An hour later, he realised this method, although tried and tested, was proving to be unsuccessful on this particular occasion. After much contemplation, he decided to, in a bold move, slowly shift over to his left side. It was, however, of no use. Something was keeping him awake. “What could it be?”, he wondered. He felt oddly nostalgic, although he wasn’t sure what he was pining for, although he was definitely pining for something. It seemed quite palpable one moment, on the cusp of disappearing the next, and oddly solid and right on the top of his head straight after, but although he jerkily groped his surroundings in the dark, he had nothing to show for it. He suddenly realised how odd it was that he should have wet himself. It was something he had been trained by his grandmother, who would smack him on the face and his bottom, referring to them as two ends of the same idiot, with her shoes, not to do. He felt his heart steadily shifting out of place as he tried to recollect what it was he had been dreaming, or rather having a nightmare, about when the incident occurred. He imagined vague flashes but failed to grab a hold of any of the images flitting through his brain. His stomach left home base as well to take up residence in what used to be his heart’s chamber. Whatever it was, it sure had affected him deeply. Sinchom lay on his back and took a series of deep breaths, shoving his vital organs back to their pivotal positions in the process. “No”, thought the young Ugandan, “this will not do. You have a hectic day tomorrow, Sinchom. Sleep is the order of the night, and you must obey it.” As he delivered to himself a stern monologue on the benefits of a good nights rest, and the importance of sleep in general, he heard, in a corner of his mind, the sound of himself snoring. The monologue faded to an end, and the enforced silence was replaced by an indifferent one. The next thing he heard, seven minutes later, was the phone ringing, seven minutes and forty three seconds later to be exact, and it was his brother informing him that his grandmother had died.